


by the sea

by Elizabeth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent AU, Fluff, Gentle, M/M, Magic Reveal, Pastoral Romance, and then a slow slide toward bliss, slight angst at the beginning, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 09:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Merlin's magic is revealed, and he is forced to flee Camelot.Arthur takes him south, to the coast."They watch the storm approach from the sea. They batten down the equipment, the stable, and the coop. 'You think the crops will be okay?' Arthur asks, letting the wind blow the tops against his outstretched hand...They look back at the wall of black clouds. It roils and flashes with lightning. Merlin looks back at Arthur; the wind whips his hair around him like a lion’s mane. Merlin reaches out and pushes it back from his face. 'It’ll be fine,' he says."The farming AU/pastoral fantasy we all deserve right now.Written for Scruffy Pendragon Fest 2020
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 114
Kudos: 574
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	by the sea

**Author's Note:**

> There are over 18,000 Merthur stories posted in this archive. This story probably exists in some form already. This is my version of it.
> 
> Comments about writing at the end.

"I cut his hair myself one night, a pair of dull scissors in the yellow light, and he told me that I'd done alright and kissed me 'til the morning light." - Regina Spektor

~ Part One ~

Merlin is abruptly jostled from his sleep, no mercy given other than a lowered voice. He blinks sleep from his eyes and detects an unusual inflection in Arthur’s voice. “Wake up.” The voice is soft, but not kind. “Wake—up!”

“I’m up,” he hisses.

“Get your things. You can say goodbye on the way out.”

“Wait, what?”

Arthur squeezes his eyes closed. “Merlin…” He heaves out a long sigh. “Look.” When he opens his eyes, there’s a hard glint that Merlin is not used to being on the receiving end of. It’s usually saved for knights who try to bully him (year ago, he saw it more) or visiting nobles with roaming hands.

Merlin feels a tightening of nerves in his gut. “I’m up,” he whispers.

“Good. Pack what you can carry.”

Gaius’ eyes glint with unshed tears. “Merlin. You know— _you know_ —how—” His voice shakes. “I’ll see you again, someday, I’m sure. But for now… _thank you_ , Merlin.”

“Gaius?” Merlin stuffs supplies into his pack. “What’s happening?”

Gaius and Arthur share a look. Gaius is pleading; Arthur is firm. “I’m sure Arthur will tell you soon enough. But for now, my boy… farewell. Write to me soon and often.”

“Gaius…”

“ _Merlin_.” Arthur’s voice is a warning to hurry.

“Thank you, Gaius. I will.” He pulls him into a tight embrace. “Thank you for everything.”

They ride hard. Arthur leads, and Merlin grips hard with his thighs to stay steady. His sides ache. He’s still half asleep, and the brutal pace is almost meditative. Five leagues from Camelot, Arthur pulls back on Hengroen’s reins. He waits for Merlin’s mare, Buttercup, to trot alongside him. “I know,” he says. He doesn’t make eye contact. “Everyone knows.”

“What?” Merlin knows his voice is small, artificially innocent. _He knows_. Merlin knows what that means. He understands.

Finally, Arthur looks at him. His eyes are filled with that unnamed emotion again, in addition to _pain_ and _anger_ and somehow, still, a speck of defiance. “Come,” he commands. He straightens his own pack and urges Hengroen on.

They ride through the night, long into the morning. They rest for an hour, and ride further. They ride until Merlin’s legs ache and he has to rub a salve into his thighs. Arthur rubs down the horses when they rest. Merlin sets up the meager camps along the way.

 _Arthur knows_. It makes setting up camp easier. It speeds their hunts.

When they finally stop, it’s on the ridge of a hill. The air is warm, filled with a salt breeze and kittiwakes’ cry.

“You know this place?” Merlin asks.

He sees in Arthur’s eyes that he does. It’s the first real warmth he’s seen in them in days. “Yes,” he says. “I know this place.”

It’s a long, lazy slope that ends in a cliff overlooking the sea. The ground is covered with thick, long grass dotted with white and purple spring flowers. To Merlin’s left, he sees a small hut with a thatched roof in disrepair. “Arthur?”

“We set up camp, and then we talk.”

_Camp_ isn’t the right word. The hut hasn’t been cared for, but it’s a far cry from a bedroll on rocky ground. There’s a bed in one room, and a wide hearth in the other. Whoever lived there in the past seems to have just vanished.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, voice low. “Light the fire.”

Merlin nods. He’s growing accustomed to being seen. He tosses another log onto the grate and makes it burn.

Arthur throws down his pack, pulls back a chair, and sits at the rustic table. “Now,” he says, “We talk.”

~ Part Two ~

The cellar has a broad door, and it’s hewn into the hillside. Merlin places his hand on the cut-out stone wall. He knows it’s been there a long time. He would have missed it, were he not so inclined to wander. There’s equipment: rustic farm implements like he remembers from his childhood. They need oiled and repaired. He carries them into the sunshine and gets to work.

Arthur has an axe. The line of the woods is over the ridge, and they have to haul the rough-cut wood on the low wagon. Merlin repaired it, and Arthur shrugged. “I guess your magic’s good for something,” he admitted.

“It’s been good for saving your arse more than once,” Merlin had told him.

Arthur grimaced. He may think he’s ready to talk about it, but there’s still room to grow.

Arthur swings the axe with the efficient violence he’s known for in a fight. He splits the logs in quarters. He’s getting better at it. The callouses on his hands are changing.

His skin has turned brown. Merlin watches him cut the wood, as he rubs oil into a ploughshare. Arthur glistens with sweat. His hair is growing long. _I wonder_ , Merlin thinks, _when it was last cut_.

They’re both unshaved. Merlin needs a trim, or he’ll soon have a beard.

They bathe in the cold spring. It bubbles from the rocks not far from the hut and joins a brook that rolls gently to the sea. “I came through here once, when I was young. Years ago, with my father.” He splashes his face and turns away. “He said there was magic here, and that we would never come back.”

“Why were you so far from home?”

“I don’t know. We never spoke of it again. I think it had something to do with my mother.”

Some days, they walk to the cliffside and look out. Those are the quiet days. Merlin sees birds—more than just the kittiwakes, but curlews, and sometimes a gannet—and he wishes he could fly. Other days, he sees Arthur split the earth with a spade and feels like he can.

The nearest village is on the other side of the woods. The path through it is remarkably absent of bandits and monsters. Arthur hangs Excalibur on the wall beside the door. They ride into the village on market days and buy seeds and sprouts. Arthur pays a courier to travel to Ealdor with a letter. He sends another back to Camelot with word for Gaius.

“Why are you doing this?” Merlin finally grows the nerve to ask. He’s set up a cot against the wall opposite Arthur’s bed. _(“Of course you’d take the bed,” he’d complained; “You can have it,” Arthur replied with a pout; “You’re a bear when you don’t sleep—you need it more.”)_ “Why are we here?”

Arthur opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. Merlin can see them in the bit of moonlight that makes its way into the room. “My father would have you burned,” he says simply. “No matter what I said.”

Merlin hums in thought. “But you—”

“Does it matter?” Arthur asks. His voice is so soft, Merlin could be imagining it.

“No,” Merlin says, “not now it doesn’t. But someday it will.” _Someday it will._

~ Part Three ~

An old woman in the village is a weaver. She makes them a rug from sturdy wool. It’s crimson and navy and as gold as the Pendragon crest. “The colors,” she explains, “made me think of you.”

Merlin runs his fingers across it. It reminds him of something traders would bring to Camelot from exotic faraway lands. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

“I want you and your young man to have it.”

“ _My_ young man?”

She smiles. “Thank him for those berries. They be sweet as can be, and perfect with honey and a bit o’ cream.”

“This is a gift worth far more than berries,” he argues.

“Aye,” she agrees. “And thank you for that dram of potion.”

Merlin looks away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She smiles. “Don’t know where you come from, lad, but you needn’t hide here.” Her eyes are kind. “And my rheumatism thanks ye, too.”

They kneel in the dirt, neither wearing a shirt, and pull weeds from between the vegetables. Merlin moves to the next row and catches Arthur staring. “What?” he asks.

Arthur reaches out and ruffles his hair. “Getting curly,” he teases. “You look ridiculous.”

Merlin scoffs. “You should see yourself.” He lets himself relax.

Arthur no longer looks afraid when he thinks Merlin isn’t watching. “Probably true,” Arthur admits. “But mine doesn’t curl.”

The soil is dark, almost black, and it crumples in Merlin’s hands. “The earth is so rich here,” he says. He looks at Arthur’s shaggy hair. The sweat has wet it around his nape. “I think you could grow almost anything.”

Arthur looks across the landscape. “You could grow everything you need for a life.”

Merlin feels his chest tighten again. He nods. “You could.”

They buy a cockerel and hens. They clean out an old roost. Merlin buys feed until they can grow their own.

Every day presents new work, and a new challenge. Arthur grows leaner, muscles changing. He cuts grass with a scythe and they dry it for hay.

At night, Merlin lights the fire with a surge of magic. Arthur’s eyes no longer widen, but he still stares. His lips part, still.

Sometimes, his tongue flits out to wet them, just after.

They lie on the rug and read to each other after the sun sets. There’s little to do, most nights, but tell stories like this. When they exhaust the few books left by the hut’s old inhabitants, Arthur spends some of his coin on more. A trader sells them two folios copied at some distant monastery. They’re full of tales from near and far.

Merlin’s grateful, now, for the years mending Arthur’s gear. He sews them cushions to lean on.

“This is my favourite,” Arthur whispers one night. It’s Orpheus and Eurydice.

“But it’s sad,” Merlin protests, looking up from the page.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Obviously.”

“Why would a _tragedy_ be your favourite?”

“He was willing to give up everything for his love.” His voice trails off to almost a whisper. He stares into the fire until Merlin resumes.

When it rains, they sit at the table and play with a deck of cards. They buy wine from a merchant from across the sea. It’s finer, even, than they had in Camelot.

They buy lemons from the lands there, too, far to the south. The world seems bigger here, than Merlin has ever known it to be.

~ Part Four ~

“Do you miss it?” Merlin asks. The summer has grown hot. Their garden is green, with sturdy plants. They’ll have new potatoes soon; they’ve already eaten their own beans.

Arthur makes a sour face. “Don’t be an idiot, _Mer_ lin.”

“I’m not being an idiot, clotpole. I really want to know.”

Arthur leans on his spade. “I miss… some things. Like our friends.”

“I was thinking about writing to Gwaine, maybe. An invitation.”

Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair, shoving it out of his face. “Maybe,” he says. “But then again…”

“I know. If they find us…”

“But maybe they’ll understand. More than just Gaius, that is.” He shakes his head. “I’m just—”

“You know they can’t take me, Arthur. I _can_ , actually, defend myself. And you. I’ve been doing it for years.”

Arthur licks his lips. “Merlin, honestly. You really are an idiot.”

“What?”

“You think that’s why I’m here.”

It’s too hot to sleep indoors, so they take their old bedrolls and lay them out beneath the stars. Arthur looks out to the sea, watching the moonlight ripple with the waves. “You think there are people out there, in boats, like Odysseus?” Arthur asks.

“You just wish you could wash up on some nymph’s island and be her prisoner for the next decade,” Merlin teases.

“No,” Arthur disagrees. “No one wants Calypso when he has Penelope at home.”

“You think Penelope was as beautiful as a sea nymph?”

“And clever. Even better.”

Merlin leans back on one of the cushions, and Arthur sprawls next to him, staring up. His hair tickles the skin on Merlin’s hand, and Merlin chases the sensation. “I suppose a clever partner would be nice…” he murmurs.

“Mmm. Look, there’s a shooting star.”

“I wish I remember all those star charts from the library.”

“Would you be able to tell my future?”

Merlin’s laugh is throaty. _Who wants the future when he has this, now?_ he wonders. “I could try.”

“Nah,” Arthur says, eyes closing. “I’m good.” He shifts his head over and rests it against Merlin’s hip to sleep.

Sometimes, it goes horribly, horribly wrong. They try to plant melons, and the vines overwhelm them. “I thought you put the stakes out for this!” Arthur complains.

“I did! I thought you thinned them out!”

“Why would I kill off perfectly good plants, Merlin?”

“Because if you don’t, they take over like this. Choke themselves. And look—the fruit doesn’t even look right.”

“Oh, and that’s _my_ fault?”

“You think it’s _mine?_ ”

“Well I know it’s not mine!”

“Arrgh!” Merlin scrubs his hands over his face. “This is ridiculous.” He storms off to sulk through the afternoon.

“Here,” Arthur says later. “The last of that berry bramble.” He offers Merlin the basket.

Merlin takes it and pops one in his mouth. “You’re infuriating,” he says around the mouthful.

Arthur eats one, too. “So are you.”

They argue over stupid things that don’t matter, like who has to wash their plates. They end up doing it together. No one tries to kill them.

“No one has lived there for decades,” the miller tells Merlin. “We’ve missed the company, truth be told.”

“Do you know who the last people were?”

“Just an old woman. The place had fallen into disrepair.”

“Had she no family?”

“Aye, she did. They’d visit on occasion, for a long time. And then they stopped. Never did know what happened to ‘em, but she passed soon after.” He strokes his grey beard. “We be right happy to have you boys.”

The first cherries are ready just after the solstice, when the sun is so bright their eyes hurt as soon as it rises. They traipse back from the woods with baskets laden.

“The sky,” Arthur says as they emerge from the trees, “is the colour of your eyes.”

Merlin stops, mid-step. When Arthur turns back and waits for him, he is radiant with sunlight, and Merlin aches just looking at him.

~ Part Five ~

Lughnasadh is celebrated with feasting and bonfires. Merlin and Arthur have seats at the table, and heaps of food await them. The baker’s wife hugs Merlin and pinches Arthur’s cheeks. The weaver waves from down the bench. Her partner makes candles and never speaks, but she squeezes Arthur’s shoulder to greet him as she passes.

They eat their fill of beef and roasted potatoes. The greens are dressed in vinegar and oil, and the carrots are glazed sweet and dripping with butter. The air smells of rosemary and wood smoke, and Arthur leans his head back to laugh at the butcher’s jokes.

Music is played between courses. The orchard keeper’s daughter plays the lute, and her sweetheart sings.

The cake looks nothing at all like what they would have in Camelot. Its sides are bare and it’s drizzled with honey and crusted sugar. Berries and sweet cream fill each layer, and the top is dressed with fresh fruit and herbs. They slice off pieces and pass them around, and Arthur hands a plate to Merlin with a soft smile.

More instruments come out as the sun sets in a pink and violet sky. Lanterns are strung through the village green, and someone prompts Merlin. “Forbearnan,” he whispers, and they light at once.

“Show off,” Arthur murmurs, elbowing him in the side.

“You would know.”

Arthur just smiles. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Merlin looks at him, bronze and gold in the lantern light. “You know,” he says, “even here the people love you.”

“Me?” Arthur scoffs. “You’re the one they invited tonight.”

Merlin shakes his head. “They waited for you to tell them to eat.”

“No one even knows who I am.”

“They don’t need to, Arthur.”

Arthur looks at him, still and quiet. Finally, he takes a step toward Merlin. “I waited for you.” They watch each other, as the villagers dance.

The music plays long into the night.

Merlin’s skin peels where it’s burned. “I know,” Arthur soothes him. “I know.”

“Gentle,” Merlin manages to whisper between gritted teeth.

Arthur’s fingers barely graze his skin as he lets the salve drip onto Merlin’s shoulders. “Always.” He smooths it over the surface with careful hands.

Merlin’s breath catches as the coolness drips down his back.

“Feel good?” Arthur murmurs close to his ear.

“Yeah.” Merlin’s voice is a low rasp. He shivers as Arthur spreads it further.

He feels Arthur’s fingers in his gut. He feels them in his spine and his chest. Arthur’s hands keep moving, and he feels them in his bones.

“There,” Arthur whispers. “All done.”

Merlin nods and bites back a whimper as Arthur’s hands are taken away. He turns to watch him put the stopper in the jar, but his tight skin stings.

~ Part Six ~

They watch the storm approach from the sea. They batten down the equipment, the stable, and the coop. “You think the crops will be okay?” Arthur asks, letting the wind blow the tops against his outstretched hand.

“Things I never thought I’d hear you say.”

Arthur snorts. “Still so disrespectful.”

“Someone still needs to keep your head out of the clouds.”

“Says the all-powerful sorcerer.”

“All-powerful? I had no idea you were so awed by my abilities.”

“Merlin, I swear to all gods—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He nudges Arthur, and Arthur grips his waist and turns him to face him.

“But do you think it’ll be okay?” he asks.

They look back at the wall of black clouds. It roils and flashes with lightning. Merlin looks back at Arthur; the wind whips his hair around him like a lion’s mane. Merlin reaches out and pushes it back from his face. “It’ll be fine,” he says.

Arthur reaches up and takes hold of Merlin’s wrist. He holds his hand in place and closes his eyes. He leans his cheek against Merlin’s palm. Merlin lets his thumb trace across Arthur’s skin.

The rain starts, and only then do they go inside.

~ Part Seven ~

“It needs a trim,” Arthur says, finally.

“But I like it,” Merlin argues.

“It’s too hot.” He isn’t wrong; the harvest season gives them exquisite heat. Every time Arthur is near, Merlin feels like his blood is boiling. Every time they touch, he feels sparks. At night, he lies awake, listening to Arthur breathe, knowing he, too, can’t sleep. He lies awake and sweats, and sighs, and _wants_.

He wants everything. He wants to taste the salt of Arthur’s sweat. He wants to run his tongue along the curve of his throat. He wants to let his fingers explore the line of Arthur’s tan, which he only gets to see when they walk to the spring. It’s low on his hips, and usually covered by his waistband.

Arthur sits a chair in the middle of their kitchen and holds out the shears.

“What, now?”

“If not now, when will we get to it, Merlin?”

“It’s half dark and the horses need fed.”

“Already done.”

“I need to check the tomato leaves for worms.”

“It can wait. Everything else can wait.”

“But—”

“ _Merlin._ ” Arthur’s eyes are wide open and clear. “I’ll grow it back out in the winter.” He runs his fingers through it. “Please?”

Arthur’s hair is so soft on Merlin’s fingertips, and the shears are almost too dull. He stands as close as he dares, and it threatens to burn.

The back is the easiest. He holds each strand between his fingers, sliding their edges along the tops of his fingers. He watches the pieces fall to his feet. “So much,” he says. “There’s so much.”

“There is,” Arthur agrees, voice tight.

When Merlin steps around him, he tilts his head up. The blue of his eyes is deep, tonight, like the sapphires they’ve left behind, like the sea at the horizon when the sun is high.

Merlin turns his eyes back to his hands. The shears click each time he closes them. He can hear the waves at the base of the cliff. He can hear the breeze rustling through the garden. He hears Arthur draw in a long breath and hold it while Merlin repositions his head.

He lets it out, and Merlin takes off the last of it. “It’s finished,” he whispers.

Arthur nods, and watches him set the shears beside him on the table. Merlin stands between Arthur’s legs. He looks down at him, and Arthur’s pupils dilate. Merlin leans halfway, and Arthur closes the distance.

Arthur tastes like spearmint. His lips are full and just a little chapped from the sun and the wind. His hands, when they find Merlin, are rough from work. He knows exactly where to touch to make Merlin’s throat release desperate sounds.

Merlin takes him by the hand and leads him into the bedroom. He undresses him like they used to, button by button. He slides his shirt off and reverently watches the way the firelight kisses his skin like a benediction. Merlin lets his hands play along Arthur’s body. He realizes that just as Arthur knows him, he knows where to press and just how much to push along the curve of his shoulder, the dip along his hip. He knows where to press his lips to Arthur’s jaw. He knows how wondrous this body is, this thing that would defy destiny itself to keep him safe.

He knows that he, too, will stay here as long as fate allows to keep Arthur out of sight, away from the clash of battle and the assassin’s blade. He tastes like home, and Merlin lets his tongue entwine with Arthur’s, giving and taking.

When Arthur pulls Merlin’s clothes from his body, he feels himself shake. “Yes,” Arthur whispers.

“Yes,” Merlin agrees. He lets himself be pressed back onto the bed. They wrap themselves in each other.

The heat of the night is nothing to this.

~ Part Eight ~

Letters come in the spring. Gaius sends word of the changes in Camelot. Their friends come later. “We won’t go back,” Arthur says.

Merlin agrees. “But you can visit us, anytime.”

They usually visit in the warm months. It’s quiet.

If asked, no one in the village would say a king lives in the hut by the sea outside of town. They wouldn’t admit the most powerful sorcerer to ever live presides over their every season feast, or that he keeps them safe from blight and famine.

They’d just say they’re good people, and friendly, and on market days they take the path through the woods to the village.

~ And they lived happily ever after… ~

**Author's Note:**

> This pandemic has taken an unexpected toll on my writing life, which it almost feels inappropriate to say. For the sake of this as an archive, however, and in an effort to be transparent, I want to be clear.  
> I've written a lot over the past few weeks. Some days, it feels like the only thing I can do without submitting to despair. Yet most days, it's been nearly impossible to write anything Merlin--an odd feeling, since this has been where I've written for, well, as long as I've actually written fic.  
> I've been writing a lot of Witcher stories, which I find interesting for a few reasons. It's a darker world, just like ours. Yet it still has a mismatched pairing and a world full of magic, danger, and possibility.  
> The point is, I want to give an explanation if you are one of the people (because I think there are at least a couple) who like my Merlin stories. I will write more Merthur. I always will. But I'm probably going to be writing more Geraskier, too. And I hope if you like my stories, you'll give them a shot, too. If not, I'll understand. Just, please don't be upset.


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